


They Shed a Sweet Light

by perfectlystill



Series: A Real Thing [4]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hanukkah, Kid Fic, Peter Parker is a Good Dad, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: “Do you know why we eat fried foods during Hanukkah?” Peter asks.Lia hums. “Because they taste good?”“That doesn’t hurt,” he agrees, helping to make sure all the ingredients are properly incorporated. “But we have to remember that there was only enough special olive oil for our people to light the Temple Menorah for one day, but it lasted eight days. That gave them enough time to make more oil.”
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: A Real Thing [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529864
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55





	They Shed a Sweet Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iovewords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iovewords/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Iovewords! Today I bring you Hanukkah fic a little over three weeks early, lol. I hope you enjoy it and have a great day <3
> 
> Title from "Hanukkah, Oh Hanukkah."

Lia pulls the chair to the kitchen counter, eyebrows furrowed with effort, cheeks dusting pink. She stares determinedly at the chair’s feet scraping across the linoleum, so Peter grabs the back and helps her along. Clambering up, Lia grabs the nearest peeled potato, looking to Peter. “We make together?”

“Yep.” Peter grabs the first potato, moving the grater out of Lia’s reach. “You want to be very careful so you don’t touch these,” he says, gently tapping against the grater’s blades. “Hold the handle, and grate the potato up and down, like this.”

Lia nods, staring. She points to the new food processor May bought Peter as a birthday gift, tucked away behind the cheap coffee pot MJ’s had since her first year of law school. “Why don’t we use that?”

Peter tilts his head. “Because I didn’t think of it.”

“It’d be fast?”

“Much faster,” Peter agrees. “But Grandpa Ben and I always used a box grater.”

“Ben?” Lia asks, wobbling as she turns, catching herself with both hands on the chairback as she looks toward her brother, currently content scooping matzo meal with a large, plastic measuring cup in his makeshift sensory play bin.

It squeezes Peter’s heart, remembering his daughter and son will never know Uncle Ben. He wonders if Ben and May felt this way about Peter knowing his own parents. His memories of his mom and dad are hazy, more stories he’s been told than any genuine recollection on his part. He has to look at the scrapbook May made him as a child to recall what his parents look like, to see his mother’s eyes and father’s jaw staring back at him in the mirror. That squeezes Peter’s heart, too.

“Grandpa Ben. Grandma May’s husband.”

Lia shakes her head. “Grandma May have no husband.”

“Grandma May did have a husband,” Peter says. His fingers scrape against the grater, and he slows down to finish the nub of potato. “He died when I was a teenager. His name was Grandpa Ben.”’

“Is she sad?”

“Sometimes. But you make her very happy.” Peter smiles despite the sad press of his lungs in his chest.

“Do I make you happy?”

“The happiest.” He hands her the next potato, the loss curbed by a sense that Ben’s still with him, with May, his influence and legacy the only thing Peter can pass on to this children. “You’re up.”

Lia grates half the potato before Peter steps in to finish. She helps with a second before complaining that her arm hurts, rubbing at her elbow and pushing the rest toward him. “You do it. You have Spider-Man arms.”

Peter chuckles as he grabs the next vegetable. “Can’t argue with that.”

Lia hops down from her chair before he grates the onion, squeezing her eyes shut tight, chin tilted up, lips tucked in, afraid of crying. Peter’s eyes grow wet, and he blinks the tears away, wiping at them with the back of his forearm. Lia’s eyes remain dry, and her scrunched up face reminds Peter of MJ trying to stop her own reaction to the syn-propanethial-S-oxide, an apparently successful and scientifically endearing method.

Peter throws the potatoes and onion onto a clean dish towel, wrapping them up and holding them over the sink to wring out the excess water. Lia shifts her chair to help, grunting as she squeezes, because, “I feel more powerful.”

When she cracks her eggs into a separate bowl (Peter’s learned it’s best not to break them directly into whatever they’re making), some pieces of shell fall in. 

“Oops,” Lia says, looking up at Peter with wide, worried eyes. “I’ll get it.”

She reaches directly into the bowl with her hand. It takes her a minute, but she fishes out all the shells, dumping them onto the counter.

“You could have used a spoon, honey,” Peter says. 

She points to the silverware drawer. “Spoon is there, and my hands here.”

“You’re right about that.” 

“Thank you,” Lia beams, holding her hands over the counter while Peter cleans up the shells. He beats the eggs with a fork before pouring them over the bowl of grated potato and onion. He measures out the salt, pepper and matzo meal, and allows Lia to use her already eggy hands to mix everything together while he begins heating the oil. 

“Do you know why we eat fried foods during Hanukkah?” Peter asks. 

Lia hums. “Because they taste good?”

“That doesn’t hurt,” he agrees, helping to make sure all the ingredients are properly incorporated. “But we have to remember that there was only enough special olive oil for our people to light the Temple Menorah for one day, but it lasted eight days. That gave them enough time to make more oil.”

“Oh,” Lia says, holding up eight fingers. “That’s why we light our menorah for eight nights.” 

“Exactly.”

“Dada,” Ben says.

“I’ll keep mixing,” Lia offers. 

“What’s up, Ben?” Peter asks, rinsing off his hands and grabbing a plastic spoon before crouching down. Matzo meal is scattered around the kitchen floor, and Peter grabs a handful from the bin, raining it over his opposite palm. “It feels a little bit like flour, doesn’t it? But it’s coarser.”

Ben babbles, handing Peter a measuring cup. 

“Thank you.” Peter taps the plastic spoon against the measuring cup and the sensory bin. Ben watches intently, quiet and curious. “The sound it makes is a little higher against the measuring cup,” Peter says, holding said cup between them. “And it’s a little lower when you hit it against your bin. That’s pretty cool.”

He demonstrates again before handing the spoon and measuring cup back, watching as Ben hits the measuring cup, dropping it in the process. He picks it up again and taps it against the side of his bin. 

“You’ll be okay if Lia and I finish making latkes?” Peter asks. 

“Dada,” Ben says, concentrating as he rhythmically taps the measuring cup against his sensory bin, slowly going faster. 

Peter washes his hands again, and Lia scrambles off her chair, sprinting to the bathroom (and her stepstool) to do the same. 

When the oil is heated, Peter starts frying the latkes, Lia standing watch on her kitchen chair. “Be careful, Daddy.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises. He got a nasty burn near his eye from splattering oil one year, and even though it healed in a few hours, MJ never lets him or Lia forget it despite Lia not even being alive when it happened. 

The latkes drain on the cooling rack, dripping onto the paper towels lined beneath it, that holiday feeling beginning to permeate their apartment. Peter’s lucky May isn’t coming over until Saturday, because she always insists latkes be served fresh -- a holdover from Ben, who saved vacation time for Hanukkah. It’s not a holiday that requires it, but there was little Ben liked more than sleeping in when the temperature dropped, watching daytime television, and frying up fresh latkes and sufganiyot.

Lia gets bored when the second batch of latkes hit the oil, so she and Ben play school. Well, she plays school, pretending to be the teacher while she spells her name in the matzo meal before grabbing Ben’s hand to do the same. He goes along with it, an easy baby who doesn’t notice or care that his older sister bosses him around. 

When Peter finishes frying the batch, he helps clean Ben up and settle him into his highchair. Both Lia and Peter like their latkes with applesauce, so Peter gives Ben a small bowl of it to eat, too. When some applesauce dribbles down his chin, Lia hands him a napkin, which Ben promptly puts in his mouth.

Instead of helping clean up the kitchen, Lia runs off, grabbing a book from her backpack, cuddling against the arm of the couch and making up a story as she flips the pages. As Peter washes the dishes, he talks to Ben about how the bowl used for the eggs is smaller than the one used to mix the latkes. He compares the bowls’ depths to the shallowness of the pan he used for frying, and he points out that everything is circular.

Ben is attentive, quiet while Peter speaks, offering noises of encouragement whenever Peter pauses and laughing when Peter lets extra bubbles fill the sink and sticks them on his nose. 

MJ arrives home a quarter before six, hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, curls spilling over her right shoulder. She’s only been gone for 12 hours, but Peter’s missed her. He loves missing her during the day, knowing she’s going to return home at the end of it. He loves having dinner ready soon after she arrives, listening to her read a bedtime story (or three) to Lia and doing voices for different characters. He loves reheating her dinner on the nights she stays at the office extra late, even if he kisses her goodbye before she’s finished eating. 

He loves that they share a home and a life. 

“How was your day?” Peter asks, scooping Ben into his arms, avoiding the blocks scattered around the floor. 

She shrugs, working down the buttons of her coat. “Okay. How was yours?”

“Good. I missed you.”

Her mouth curves, equal parts amused and affectionate. “I was too busy to miss you.”

“Did you miss me?” Lia asks, grabbing impatiently at MJ.

“I miss you the way your dad misses me,” she jokes, unwinding her scarf and grinning at Peter, then Lia. 

Lia giggles, tugging at MJ's blazer. “Hurry up, Mommy. It’s Hanukkah.”

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” she says, hanging her scarf up and slipping her arms out of her coat.

“I made dinner,” Lia adds.

“Did you?”

“I did!”

Michelle inhales, hanging her coat on the same hook as her scarf before bending down to unzip her boots. “It smells delicious. What did you make?”

“Latkes!” 

MJ squints. “I don’t think that’s what I smell.”

Lia sniffs and frowns. “Daddy cooked, too.”

MJ laughs, and Lia grabs her hand. She leads MJ by Peter and Ben, letting go when MJ pauses and sprinting toward the table by the window where the unlit menorah currently stands. 

“Hi, Ben,” MJ says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “How are you?”

He grins, a couple of teeth in a wide mouth. “Mama.”

MJ smiles back, taking him from Peter in a well-practiced move, useful whether they’re walking down the block when Spider-Man is needed or Lia’s trying to see if she can stick to walls (so far, no. Fingers crossed it doesn't turn into a yes). It works the other way around if MJ’s cell rings across the room with a client’s call or sudden inspiration strikes.

Ben grabs at the broken dahlia necklace MJ still wears, and Peter rubs at the nape of her neck, feeling her tension seep away. She turns to press a firm kiss to his mouth. “I missed you, too.”

“I know,” Peter murmurs. 

“Hurry up! It’s night!” Lia shouts, hands splayed on the table, bouncing up and down on her tiptoes. 

“We better start the mitzvah before she hurts herself.”

“Daddy,” Lia whines. 

“We’re coming,” MJ says.

Peter prepares Ben’s dinner, cutting soft potatoes and carrots and the piece of seitan roast before setting the plate on the coffee table. 

“Ready?” Lia asks.

“Patience is a virtue,” Peter says.

Lia rolls her eyes, clasping her hands very patiently in front of her body and rocking on her heels. 

Peter lights the shamash, reciting the three prayers before lighting the first candle. Then, they all settle down to relish the miracle of Hanukkah. MJ holds Ben while he eats his dinner, and Peter asks Lia if she remembers the Hanukkah story. 

“Yes.”

“What do you remember?”

“They lit the menorah. It lasted,” she pauses, counting the candles, “Nine days.”

“Eight days,” Peter corrects. “The shamash is used to light the other candles.”

“I knew that.”

Peter smiles, smitten. “Would you like to tell the story, or would you like me to do it?”

Lia bites her lip, thinking for a long moment. “You tell it today. I’ll tell Grandma May.”

“Deal.” Peter holds out his hand for their patented handshake. “There was a Syrian king named Antiochus who wanted everyone to practice one religion.”

“Ch’smas?”

“No, Christmas didn’t exist yet.”

“Woah.” Lia rests her elbow on the coffee table, cushioning her cheek in her palm. 

“I know. It was a really long time ago,” Peter agrees. “The king wanted everyone to be like him, but a Jewish priest named Matthias and his five sons wanted to keep being Jewish, so they took their people and fought back. One of his sons, Judah Maccabee, was a really good fighter, and he and his soldiers were able to defeat Antiochus and his army even though they were the underdogs.

“After they won, they went back to the Temple to clean up, and they discovered there was only enough oil to light the Menorah for one day, but it lasted for eight days.”

“Miracle,” Leah says.

“Exactly. We celebrate that miracle when we celebrate Hanukkah, and we also celebrate the freedom to practice whatever religion we want.”

Lia nods, eye shining dark and round. “I want to celebrate Hanukkah and my birthday.”

MJ laughs a sound as cozy as a flame, and Peter shakes his head in amusement. “You can celebrate your birthday, Lia. But that isn’t a religion. I’m Jewish, and so are you.”

Lia turns to MJ. “What about you?”

“Oh,” MJ says. “Grandma Maggie, Grandpa Phil and I were Christian, so we celebrated those holidays, like Easter and Christmas.”

“We celebrate Ch’smas for you?”

“Yes, but I’m not really any religion now.”

“You can be nothing?” Lia asks, eyebrows shooting up.

“If that’s what you decide.”

Lia hums, turning to look more fully at the menorah. “I want to be Jewish now.”

“You already are,” Peter says. 

Both he and MJ agreed their kids could decide to be, or not to be (very Shakespearean of them), whatever religion they want as they grow older, but she also knows how important this is to him -- celebrating the Jewish holidays together, teaching Lia and Ben their heritage and history.

They play Dreidel until their menorah candles extinguish and MJ wins, foiling Lia’s best efforts to find a way to spin the dreidel so it lands on gimel every time -- sometimes her strategy involves “mistake” spins that require a “do-over.”

MJ, Lia and Peter eat dinner at the kitchen table, and MJ shares the boring minutiae of her day that interests Peter because it happened to her: the banana that wasn’t ripe enough, the brief her boss made her rewrite despite the time and effort that went into the first attempt (and MJ’s firm belief that her initial attempt was better), the man playing guitar on the subway on her way home. 

Lia retells the story of _Caps for Sale_ , which Mr. Gomez read with a monkey puppet during her class’s daily read aloud. She now wants a pet monkey, but MJ negotiates her down to a pet fish if she’s really good and shows she’s responsible by remembering to water the polka dot plant they grew from seeds over the summer. 

Peter watches MJ and Lia’s back and forth, the pout and logic Lia uses in a manipulative attempt to get her way: “I gave Dina the Dinosaur a bath!” and “I made dinner!” He marvels at MJ’s unaffected reaction, her counterpoints firm and kind as she talks Lia down. Lia feels like she’s won something, and MJ knows in a few weeks she won’t remember wanting a pet monkey or the promise of a fish. 

When she grows up, Lia could be a lawyer like her mother, and it wouldn’t surprise Peter at all. 

MJ puts Ben to bed while Lia helps clear the table before starting her own nighttime routine. She and Peter prepare her backpack and clean up the toys scattered around the living room. She protests that picking up Ben’s blocks is unfair, but she does it anyway because it's Hanukkah. With MJ’s help, Lia picks up her room, brushes her teeth, says goodnight to Peter, and changes into her pajamas (her choice). 

Peter spends this time texting May and Ned and scrolling through the news. Sometimes he begins going through the household bills or dusting the furniture, but tonight he’s tired and conserving his energy.

He wanders toward Lia’s room, door still ajar. She sits against the headboard and beneath the covers, tucked underneath MJ’s arm as she reads _A Hat for Mrs. Goldman_. It must be MJ’s choice; for the last two weeks, Lia’s been obsessed with Rachel Isadora’s The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Lia wears a bedtime book out, allowing MJ to read it to her until she has it memorized, and then she reads it to MJ before moving on to another.

Peter doesn’t disturb them, just watches for a minute, basking in MJ’s voice, soft, soothing and melodic.

He’s already in the Spider-Man suit when MJ enters their bedroom. 

“Lia go to sleep okay?”

“Yeah, she was exhausted from making dinner.” MJ offers a joking smile as she sits on the edge of their bed, looking up with her own wide, exhausted eyes. “Are you gonna be out long?”

“Don’t jinx me.”

MJ ignores him, smoothing a hand over the top of her head. “I’ll probably be asleep by the time you get back.”

“Only because you jinxed me,” Peter says, grabbing his mask from their dresser. “I’ll try to be quiet.”

“Great, now you’re going to crawl through the window groaning and bleeding out.”

“That happened one time.”

MJ narrows her eyes. 

“Less than ten times.”

She hums, unconvinced.

“Bleeding out is very intense, MJ.”

“Fine. You’ve gotten better over the years,” she says, a grateful sincerity underlying her words that only someone who’s known her for a long time could hear.

Peter nods, trying to take the compliment to heart. He’s worked hard to take less risks, to be careful and assess ways to more effectively and efficiently deal with danger so he doesn’t need stitches or end up in the hospital.

He sits next to MJ, attuned to her and the reassurance she brings simply by existing in the same space as him. “Sometimes, when I could have taken care of it myself, I used to go to your apartment just to see you.”

“I know that sounds sweet, but it was stressful worrying about cleaning your blood off my wall and my parents finding my half-naked boyfriend in my room.”

“Okay,” Peter fumbles. “Good point. But I was 17.”

“And very stupid,” she says, eyes sparkling.

“Very,” he agrees solemnly, bumping his knee against hers. 

“The making out after was nice, though.”

“Just nice?” 

“You’ve gotten better at that, too.”

He chuckles, recalling the risk of knocking on her window and how it has altered into the safety of coming home. The way kissing MJ is more familiar than ever and how that familiarity is more exciting than anything has ever been. 

“Are you and Lia still helping at the soup kitchen on Saturday?” he asks.

“Yes, and May’s coming back with us for dinner.”

“And Lia’s sleeping over there.”

“And my parents are taking Ben Sunday morning,” MJ says, bumping his knee back. 

“I miss you,” Peter breathes, resting his head against her shoulder, and MJ lays hers over his. 

“You wouldn’t have to miss me if you stayed in tonight.”

Peter groans.

“I know, I know. You can’t,” she says, a thread of sadness that clenches in Peter’s chest, soothed by the way she reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers. 

“Playdate Sunday.”

“Gross. Don’t call it a playdate.”

Peter smiles, knocking her backwards and running his nose along her cheekbone. “But it’s a date, and we’re going to _play_.”

MJ giggles, bubbling like champagne, a special, private laugh he only ever hears in their bedroom after a long day. Peter kisses her cheek, then her temple. “You’re such a loser,” MJ says, grabbing his chin so she can slot her mouth against his, kissing him deep and slow. 

Peter feels it all over, and he groans again, pulling away. “I really have to go.”

MJ sighs, flopping back and shoving at his shoulder. “Go, Spider-Man.”

Peter presses a second kiss to her temple before standing and grabbing his mask, slipping it over his head before wiggling the window open.

“Hey,” MJ calls. 

He turns to see her propped up on her elbow, hair mussed, bags beneath her eyes, wrinkles in her blouse. 

How did he get so lucky? 

“Don’t die,” she says. “It’s only the first night of Hanukkah, and my pronunciation of the blessings is still mediocre.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Peter says. “Your Hebrew’s great.”

“Liar.” MJ’s eyes brim with affection, her smile soft and worn in like a favorite sweater. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He crawls out the window, sticking himself to the side of the building so he can force the finicky thing closed again. The air is crisp and cold. The wind is brittle, and he doesn’t want MJ to worry about a draft when she goes to sleep, doesn’t want her to wake up at midnight with cold feet. 

And then Peter reaches out and swings, web connecting with the next building over, the light of a decorative, electric menorah shining in one of the windows.


End file.
